Nine Times Dean Needed Sam Part 2
by Enkidu07
Summary: Right Where I Need to Be.' Happy Birthday Mad Server! Nine writers have created a birthday collection featuring Needy!Dean. Can be read in any order and other sections will be posted throughout the day. This part: Season 1. Sad!Sam/Sick!Dean.
1. Right Where I Need to Be

**Title**: Nine Times Dean Needed Sam - Part 2: Right Where I Need To Be  
**Author**: Enkidu07  
**Disclaimer**: I'll put them back, I promise.  
**Betas**: Special thanks to InSecret who channeled Mad Server with her demands for more showing and less telling. Also, thanks to Onyx Moonbeam for drabblizing this… A.K.A. getting rid of so many unnecessary words.  
**Posted**: 8 March 2010  
**A/N**: Mad Server, this one's for you. I'm pretty sure that Dean's had a rough week. Maybe he can crash at your place for a few days once the birthday shenanigans have passed? I hope your birthday is super and wonderful!!! *smishes you madly*  
**A/N2**: Nine of us have ganged up to help celebrate Mad Server's Birthday. Stories are along a common theme ('Times Dean Needed Sam') but are otherwise independent pieces. I'm posting now because it is officially Mad's birthday, and, unofficially, I just can't wait anymore. Stay tuned for the other stories throughout the day!  
**Fellow Players**: Onyx Moonbeam, Supernoodle, PA Davis, Sidjack, Liafrombrazil, Soncnica, Hanson's Angel, and IheartSam7

--

"You okay, man?"

Dean drags a hand lethargically down his face. "No."

They rest there a few minutes, sprawled in the dewy grass. Dean's eyes are closed and Sam takes a second to take stock of their position. The flames are dying down around the dark edges of the grave, mud smears their clothing, and the shovels and shotgun lie scattered between them. Sam's tired and worn down and not moving feels really good.

A suppressed sneeze and a low moan from Dean break the predawn silence and Sam pushes himself up. He grabs the shovel and slowly begins to fill in the hole.

Twenty minutes later, the grave is a soft hump of dirt and the sun's starting to break the tree line. Dean has finally propped himself up against a tombstone. Sam sighs as he wipes haphazardly at the sweat running down his face and tries to remember what his life was like just a few months ago.

Dean staggers to his feet, red lines of bruising stark against his pale face. He holds his right arm close to his side and stands still for two beats before turning towards the Impala.

Sam puts the gear away and throws a cloth to his brother. Instead of swiping at the sludge clinging in his hair, Dean blows his nose noisily, spits into the grass, and climbs into the passenger side.

--

Sam's relatively unscathed, so back at the hotel all eyes are on Dean. He shucks his shirt slowly, wincing as he pulls the material over his head. Sam follows as Dean stumbles his way into the bathroom and scans Dean's bared ribs. Bruises are already forming but his brother appears to be in one piece. Dean sucks in a breath when Sam eases his arm away from his side.

"Where does it hurt?"

Dean's eyes flick to his in the mirror and then swallows. "Shoulder."

Sam wraps cool hands around the hot flesh of the joint, fingertips pushing gently along the top ridge. He can feel the area swelling and Dean jerks away as his fingers move around to the front.

Sam patiently crowds in again and pushes a thumb carefully along the tendons in Dean's neck. He feels the heat of a fever as he cups his hand around the shoulder blade, watches Dean's expression carefully in the mirror. Finally, he moves to the front again, lightening his touch.

"Feels like it's in the socket. Can you move it?"

Dean moves his arm carefully forward, then up, then out. He mumbles grumpily, "Just wrenched, I think. Fucking hurts." He's breathing through chapped lips, sounds congested. Red contusions along his cheek highlight the paleness of his skin.

Sam watches him for a second, wheels turning. "Okay. Take a shower. Get some of the dirt off. I'll get you some ice and pain killers and a new sling."

Dean grunts in acquiescence, then adds, "Pick up some food too. And maybe some of that Cold FX stuff?"

--

The next morning Dean emerges from the bathroom looking like ass.

"You look like ass."

Dean rolls his shoulder slowly, wincing and rubbing at his bruised temple. "Shut up."

Sam grins and moves to pack the car while Dean works himself into shoes and a jacket.

Sam tosses him the sling and Dean drops it on the bed with a look of distaste.

"Just wear it."

"I'm fine. It'll just get in the way."

There's a stare down that ends with Dean pushing past him and heading to the car. Sam's left staring at the dirty green wall. Heat and water damage have left the paper puckered and stained.

Sam sighs and picks up the sling from the worn comforter. He crushes it in a frustrated fist and turns to the parking lot. Dean's waiting in the driver's seat, both hands curled white-knuckled around the steering wheel.

Sam slides in, dumping the sling unceremoniously in the backseat. "Where we headed?"

"Breakfast. Then maybe Summersville. There've been some strange animal sightings up there over the last two weeks."

Sam blows out a breath and shrugs, taking in the tight expression on Dean's face. Dean obviously doesn't want any help. He's hurt and sick and yet they're off to hunt a wild animal. "Awesome."

Dean blinks slowly, snuffles back a head full of mucus, and then grimaces as he uses his right hand to put the car in gear.

--

A few hours later Sam's pretty sure Dean's face is going to be permanently pinched. He's all but given up using his right hand to drive and his eyes are squinted even in the stormy afternoon light. He keeps clearing his throat and wiping at watery eyes.

Just before Sam's about to suggest a break, Dean lets the car slow on the quiet winding highway. Sam watches as Dean's nose scrunches up and his breathing deepens. His focus is intense. All's quiet for a second and then an explosive sneeze escapes. Dean throws his right hand up to suppress it and cries out as the movement wrenches his injured shoulder. His reaction jerks the car to the side, swerving over the yellow line. Sam fights for the wheel. "Brake, Dean. Hit the brake!"

Sam's as shaky as Dean by the time they get the car safely off the road. He reaches over and puts it in park, shuts off the engine and takes the keys.

Dean's breathing slowly calms and Sam passes him a napkin to wipe the spit and snot off his hands.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You ready for the sling?"

Dean shakes his head and Sam feels annoyance flare up. He gets out of the car and takes a little of his adrenaline out on the car door as he slams it shut. He stalks around the front of the car, jerks open Dean's door and orders, "Scoot over. I'm driving."

Dean looks up at him, still gripping his shoulder, "I'm fine, Sam." But he slowly slides across the bench.

--

Dean slumps against the car door, hand still loosely protective across his chest. Sam isn't really expecting an apology, but he's still irritated as Dean totally shuts down, falling into a restless sleep before they even get back up to speed. Eyes ahead, he keeps driving until overcast turns into torrential and then torrential turns to freezing rain. Through the icy windshield he spots a vacancy sign.

Once Sam secures a room, he pokes at Dean and watches as he wakes up. His lip curls into a snarl and his breathing picks up until he's practically panting, eyes still squeezed shut. Yeah, he's fine.

"We're in number four, down at the end. I'll grab your stuff." Sam gets out and gives Dean some space to pull himself together.

Dean nods and fumbles with the door.

Sam runs their gear inside, freezing rain running under his shirt and soaking his waistband. When he comes back out, Dean's sitting forward, butt still in the passenger seat, body sideways with his feet on the pavement. Rain is dripping down his face. He sneezes forcefully and Sam can see the color drain from his already pale features. Sam reaches out to him as he sneezes again. He's close enough to hear the low moan that Dean hums out as he shifts forward. Sam catches his left shoulder, stopping him from face planting onto the parking lot.

Dean opens bleary eyes and grabs clumsily at Sam's lapel. "Ow."

"Ya think?" Sam wraps a hand around his bicep and pulls him to his feet.

--

It's a long evening. Sam breaks out the Nyquil and pushes it on Dean but it's not quite enough to break through his congestion and fever.

Sam starts to research the Summersville attacks and Dean watches him blearily from where he's sprawled out on his back on the bed.

"Why don't you get _under_ the covers, Dean?"

Dean blinks slowly at him. "It's not night." His brow shimmers, his nose is red, and he's reduced to open mouth breathing.

Sam shakes his head and turns back to the computer. When he glances back again, Dean's eyes have slipped closed and drool is working its way onto the pillow.

After a few minutes, Sam gets up to get the ice pack and balances it on Dean's shoulder. He briefly runs a hand across Dean's brow and gently palpates the bruising around his eye. Dean shuffles in his sleep and murmurs restlessly, curling into Sam's hand. Sam pulls the blanket from the other bed and drapes it over him. Dean doesn't wake up so Sam rubs at his shoulder gently and then settles in for a lone evening reading about the horrors of Summerville Lake.

--

The next morning, Dean's up early. Sam can hear the shower running and pushes into the pillow to delay the day for a few more minutes.

Dean's feeling better. Sam can tell by the wet towel that lands on his head. "Up and at 'em, Sammy. I checked out your notes and we've got places to be." Dean's voice has a new rasp.

Sam groans and pushes the towel off. "How're you feeling?"

He watches Dean pointedly pull in a mostly clear breath. It leads to a wet coughing jag and Dean winces and clears his throat. "I'll live."

Sam rubs his cheek against the rough pillowcase.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean wheedles. "I'll let you drive." It's as close to an apology as Sam's gonna get.

He drags himself to a sitting position. "How's your shoulder?"

"Uhhh, purple."

"You need to wear the sling. Let it heal." Sam's not sure why he's still pushing it. Dean's an adult. He doesn't need Sam's help. But Sam finds himself beating against that wall over and over again, anyway.

"Sam."

Sam tosses Dean the towel and then watches with raised brows as Dean almost doubles over as he reflexively reaches to catch it.

"That's the deal. Wear the sling and we can hit the road."

Dean grumbles and turns away and Sam feels powerless. He pulls himself up and hits the shower; lets the water run over his face until it turns cold. He's tired and misses the soft warmth of his momentarily normal life, isn't sure where he belongs anymore. He takes his time drying off and working up the energy to face the day.

When Sam comes out of the bathroom, he's surprised to see Dean struggling with the sling.

A grin unexpectedly tugs at the corner of his mouth.

More grumbles and Sam almost laughs.

Dean stops struggling and glares at Sam's amusement. Finally he sighs, "Are you gonna help me with this thing or not?"

--

A few miles down the road Dean's already passing out, nose running again and cheeks flushed. Arm cradled in the sling, the pain lines around his eyes have eased and he almost looks peaceful.

The months since Jess's death have been hard. They've barely stopped and the heartache has been ruthless. In the rare moment of silence, Sam looks around. The day's turning sunny and bright, Summersville's a few hours up a meandering tree-lined highway, and Dean's relaxed beside him. Sam finally feels like he's right where he needs to be.

--


	2. Tissues are Awesome

**A/N**: This chapter was an accident and has no point. But, it's a birthday present. And it's the thought that counts. And I just kept thinking of poor, poor sick Dean. Remix of chapter 1, from Dean's POV.

--

Dean awakens slowly. He blinks in the dawn twilight, a little confused, fingers coiling in damp grass, nausea tugging at his gut. He vaguely entertains the possibility that he's been momentarily, _very slightly_, unconscious.

"You okay, man?" He jumps when he hears Sam's voice next to his ear. The motion jars his head and he rubs at his temple, wincing as the dull ache turns to a sharp throb. His throat's dry but he heroically resists the urge to cough.

Sam nudges him, "Okay?"

Dean grunts out, "I'm fine."

His voice is wrecked, but it must be convincing enough because Sam falls back in the grass beside him and leaves him alone.

Dean's aware of the motion of the earth in a way that's entirely unnatural. He keeps his fingers curled into the clammy dirt and holds on. Pressure is building behind his eyes. He really, really doesn't want to sneeze right now. He breathes carefully, controlled, concentrates hard; ultimately loses the battle. Sparks fly up his ribs and arm. His head explodes and he gags wretchedly.

Sam shifts around; Dean hears the sound of a shovel in the dirt. Minutes pass and he starts to feel a little pathetic sprawled in the grass, so he pulls himself carefully up against the nearest stone. By the time Sam's finished, the woods have almost stopped spinning, and the dew has fully infiltrated the length of his jeans. He rallies and gets himself to his feet, holds his breath until he's pretty sure he's going to stay up, and then pushes off in the general direction of the car.

Blurry moments later he hits his mark and thankfully leans into the Impala's solid frame. He'd give his right arm for a tissue right about now, nose raw and dripping, sinuses clogged. He flinches when a white rag appears in front of him; looks at Sam, surprised and a little suspicious. Sometimes it's like the kid is psychic.

--

Time stutters throughout the rest of the day. Sam's in and out of his line of vision; poking at him, prodding painful places, invading his space, pushing him to a shower, and then to bed. He knows Sam's physically fine, but can feel the sadness still rolling off him. It's too much on top of everything else and Dean curls in on himself desperate to shut everything out for a while.

--

The next morning he drags himself up. Sam's been essentially alone in the room since yesterday and Dean's sure he needs to get out and get moving before he implodes. There's a potential hunt a few hundred miles north and, if nothing else, Dean can certainly handle driving. And, if he's lucky, Sam will get some sleep for a change.

His face thrums with pressure, moisture leaking through his eyes and nose. The right side is mostly numb under the bruising and Dean will take the reprieve while it lasts. His body feels battered and ready to be deep-fried. Dean smirks at the mental image and then grimaces when his stomach rebels at the idea of greasy food.

He sucks it up and bickers with his brother, rewarded by a casual grin that warms him from the inside.

--

An hour or so down the road, Dean starts to realize that a day on the road was a terrible idea. The sun keeps peeking out from between angry clouds, driving spikes into his brain until he can barely see the road in front of him. The stormy day has created an unnatural chill that the Impala's heater can't squelch and minute shivers pierce through his shoulder and ribs, stealing away his breath. Furthermore, the acute twinges keep wringing out cold sweat that soaks his body, infiltrating and igniting the raw skin along his temple and jaw and side.

Dean's pretty proud of how well he's holding it together until Sam flips out and demands to drive. Dean almost protests; knows he should order Sam to get some sleep. But Sam looks determined and, now that he thinks of it, Dean desperately just wants to close his eyes for a second.

--

Almost immediately Sam's poking Dean awake, tells him they are stopping for the day; points him to a distant room. The weather has changed unnaturally fast, overcast skies suddenly dark and icy.

Dean's tighter than he realized, muscles protesting even shallow attempts to breathe. Explosive sneezes leave him dizzy and drunk. Bright sparkles light his way to the pavement. He's about to go down hard when Sam's hand suddenly appears and effortlessly keeps him upright.

Sam's close and warm and surprisingly stable in the hazy rain. Dean grips tight and lets him steer; sends out psychic wishes for another Kleenex.

--

Sam pulls off his wet clothes, gives him some nasty licorice medicine, and pushes him to the bed. It feels awesome. Sturdy. Anchored. The covers are cool and soothing along his back. Dean decides to rest for a minute until he's sure he can make it to the bathroom on his own. He wants some painkillers, and a hot shower would probably loosen the pressure in his sinuses. And tissues. There's probably a whole box in there.

--

Dean wakes up in the dark. He can hear Sam's soft breathing from the next bed. A blanket has been draped over him and he feels warm. Turning his head is enough to reawaken the pounding. Harsh coughs surprise him and he grimaces at the bitter mucus tang left on his tongue. He scrapes it forward with his teeth and drags a finger in his mouth. He scans the darkness; when no options miraculously appear, he wipes the thick phlegm on the bedspread. Then, after a pause, he just pulls the edge of it up to blow his nose.

Finally able to draw in air without hacking, he forces himself to stay still, waiting out the cramping that's twisting though his shoulder and chest. As the tension in his body slowly uncoils, he lets Sam's steady breaths lull him back to sleep.

--

It's only the promise of medicated relief that convinces Dean to drag his aching body to the bathroom in the morning. Sam has left the ibuprofen out and Dean washes three down with metallic motel water.

What the shower lacks in pressure it makes up for with steamy damp heat. Dean's pretty sure he's running a fever and the hot water feels amazing and works wonders on his clogged nasal passages. Coughing rips at his throat, but it's worth it when he's able to expel a mouthful of yellow gunk from his lungs. He spits and blows his nose directly into his hands, letting the shower spray wash it away.

His ribs and shoulder are vividly bruised. He clenches a careful fist and winces as the muscles pull. He moves a hand to his cheek and temple, lightly pressing on the reddened skin. It's sore but nothing that a few days and some extra strength Tylenol won't cure.

Sam's still in bed when Dean comes out. He's awake but burrowing his face into his pillow. Dean's grins at the towel he's been dragging through his hair. Careful aim and yatzee! Sam pushes the towel off and stops feigning sleep.

Dean keeps it light. Doesn't need Sam worrying about more than he's already dealing with. Sam's pushing the sling again, but an arm in a sling means Dean can't drive, so, no dice.

Sam plays dirty and tosses him the towel. And, yeah, that sucked. But Dean stays strong and is surprised by the flash of hurt he sees in Sam's eyes.

Sam goes to shower and Dean takes a time out before getting dressed. If he could just think through the fuzz in his head he's sure he can figure this out.

Sam's had a rough few months and Dean's been working hard to keep things easy. It's not that he wouldn't love to take a break and let Sam take the wheel for a little while.

He shuffles through the papers that Sam has left on the table. Sam has outlined the entire case. It's good work and well organized. The sling catches his eye. Sam wants him to wear it. Even though it means Dean will need Sam to drive. And need him to carry the gear. And man the shovel. And watch their backs.

Though, come to think of it, Sam's been doing all of those things for the last two days.

--

Sam obviously opted for the childproof version. As Dean's trying to figure out how to finagle his way into the contraption without doing permanent damage, Sam comes out of the bathroom. Dean's embarrassed by his lack of grace, but he feels a little relief at the grin he sees pulling at Sam's lip.

There's really something wrong with the stupid thing and finally Dean lets Sam help him. He steals himself for more pain but then is pleasantly surprised at how gentle his brother can be. Even better, once Dean's arm is held snug against his chest, he's finally able to draw in a breath without it pulling so painfully at his neck and side.

Dean tenses as he feels a sneeze building. The jarring exhalation doesn't make him feel like he's going to pass out.

Sam palms the back of his neck. Can obviously feel the fever. Dean lets Sam keep him steady and close for a second. Sam's watching him closely and Dean can predict his next comment, "You still look rough, man. We could stick around another day."

"Yeah, yeah, let's go already." He detours through the bathroom for some extra tissues and leaves the heavy stuff for Sam. "Hey, Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Want me to drive?"

Sam's answering grin is totally worth the wet towel in his face.

--

end.


End file.
